


porcelain jars and panic attacks

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Gen, Mentions of Cancer, Stiles Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 04:38:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>It's funny, you know? All these years, and he's never once forgotten.</em> </p><p>In which Stiles cuts his hair, an anniversary is commemorated and Polish names are revealed. Canon up to and including 3x13.</p>
            </blockquote>





	porcelain jars and panic attacks

It's funny, you know? All these years, and he's never once forgotten. He's always seen himself in the mirror, seen his too-long-by-a-centimetre hair, and ducked down to the barber's for fifteen minutes, tops. It's something he's always done. Since, anyway. Since.

He guesses he could be excused, since he's been caught up in this fuckload of alphas and druids and nemetons and insanity and God knows what else, and didn't really have the time to make a hair appointment. No-one had really commented on it, anyway, at least not to his face. (He doesn't pretend he doesn't know they talk about him when he isn't there. He may not be able to hear their heartbeats but he can tell when people are lying to him. And his friends lie all the goddamn time.)

But _the day_ is today, the anniversary of _then_ , and Stiles wakes up and sees his too-long-by-several-centimetres hair and remembers what he's forgotten.

He's the first one at the barber shop that morning, and Robin gives the cut to him half price, even though he hasn't seen her in months. Sometimes it's nice having friends who aren't wolves.

He doesn't feel any different, afterwards. Not lighter, with a bounce in his step, or any of that crap. He's still _Stiles_ , still little _Szczęsny_ , still _human_ and _miserable_ and _inadequate_. (Not that he ever tells anyone that. After all, one must keep up appearances, and even though his smile is so fake sometimes it feels as though it'll snap right off, no-one seems to notice, and he likes it that way.)

And, oh. The bouquet is on the passenger seat of his jeep when he remembers the pack meeting. He doesn't even know why he goes anymore - it's not like they need him there. But still he chucks a u-turn and heads over to Derek's place. He'll make it quick. He doesn't want the flowers wilting in the midday sun.

He has a key, but the door's unlocked. Even without super werewolf senses, he can hear voices inside. He wishes Derek had scheduled this for _any day but today_ , but when it had been announced, he hadn't spoken up. (It's not like they would have listened to him if he had.)

When he makes his way into the lounge room, Scott is sprawled across the sofa, Kira sitting on the floor by his head; Lydia and Allison are talking about something (laughing? He catches himself before the words _how dare they_ spring to mind.); Isaac and Peter sitting awkwardly in the loveseat. Derek is leaning against the doorframe into the kitchen, and Stiles copies his stance.

The pack looks up as soon as he clears his throat.

Lydia says something, then - possibly _what the hell were you thinking_ , gesturing at his hair - and Derek shifts uncomfortably. Stiles just blinks. Breathes. (He should never have come here, not now, not _today_ , not when his heart is tripping double-time for no other reason than the date, not when he can feel a headache coming on and maybe a panic attack as well, not when he's had twice the Adderall he's prescribed and oh, great, they can probably smell it on him, and so here comes the interrogation, and fuck fuck Jesus fuck why didn't he tell Derek to postpone this goddamn meeting?)

Someone's saying his name. Distantly. He looks down at his watch and the numbers are blurry. Oh, God, not again, didn't he close that door so this wouldn't happen anymore?

"Sorry, I need to…" he hears himself say, and then he's brushing off Scott's concerned hand, shouldering out the door and down the stairs and across the street and fuck, he drops his keys once, twice, and they won't fit in the lock, but then they do, and he slides in and shuts the door and breathes, breathes, breathes.

He doesn't remember the drive, only wakes up when the jeep is parked by the wrought-iron gates and he's outside in the warm, sticky air. Not good, he thinks, but he doesn't really give a shit. The bouquet's in his hands and he's inside the gates and he could find her grave with his eyes closed, if he wanted.

Cemeteries are strange places. ( _Szczęsny_ , he hears his mom say, as she's whirling him around and around in her arms. _My little Szczęsny_.) Breathe, he tells himself. ( _Szczęsny_ , she says, holding him tight and letting him trail his fingers across her newly-shaven scalp.) "Breathe," he says, except he can't, he can't. ( _My little Szczęsny_ , she sighs out, tubes and tape and needles making her voice heavy and slow and cloying.) Breathe. ( _Loving wife to John and mother to Szczęsny_ , her tombstone read. Her tombstone _reads_.)

Breathe. Cough. Clear the throat. (Wipe away the tears.)

He'd take the nemeton over this any day, the insanity over this every day, the pain over this forever. (Because there's no pain now, not really, just an empty porcelain jar inside his cage of ribs called _Stiles_ where the heart labelled _Szczęsny_ used to be.)

**Author's Note:**

> ANGST HAPPENED. I'M SORRY.


End file.
